Rely On Me
by de-anon
Summary: "It's not that I don't want to depend on you, Sweden," he murmured at the fabric dancer depicted on the cloth. "And I do trust you." He swallowed and set the icepack down onto the bedside table. "It's just that sometimes it's hard for me to remember that I'm not going at this alone anymore." SuFin Oneshot


**Was a gift/request fic for a friend of mine who loves Sufin. I'd never written the pairing or the characters before, so I kind of went in blind. This is the result.**

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I.

Three days, one long storm, and a constant fire stood watch over the unconscious Fin until the shifting of wood crumbling into ash finally caused him to stir. At first it was a slow ascent back into the world of the living, where the unrelenting scraping of branches against the window or the dull mumble of some far away voice seemed incomprehensible, as if caught behind a thick barrier. But, as time wore on, so came a nagging pain in the back of Tino's head which slowly blossomed into a dull ache then intensified into a pounding throb.

The first time he opened his eyes, the initial shock of bright light had him reeling in agony until he clenched at the pillow that he shoved his face into, counting down the seconds until his head stopped spinning. Berating himself, he breathed deeply through gritted teeth, chest heaving as he pushed himself upright.

"Where am I?" The words parted clumsily from a dry mouth and dwelled with the thick silence that followed.

Undeterred, Tino worked to assess the gauze and bandage weaved through matted hair, until his fingers came upon a tender spot along the back of his skull. "So that's the source of the pain…" He let his hands drop to his sides.

The room he was in was not unfamiliar, though the haze in his mind hindered any attempts at recognizing anything other than the tangle of his own winter clothes slumped against the mantle of the fireplace. Still, he felt as if he was a synapse away from pinpointing his location, if only he could concentrate long enough to truly think. Surely he'd seen that simple pine table tucked into the corner near the door before, or that quilt slung over the chest at the foot of the bed. He half hoped that the little figurines dancing across the top of a small bookshelf would help jog his memory, but it all seemed to weigh too heavily on him until he felt his eyes drooping once again.

Tino slipped back into unconsciousness before he realized it, slouched awkwardly against the headboard.

II.

Then came that same far-away voice some time later, and the coolness of fingertips ghosting over Tino's forehead to brush aside sweat-soaked bangs. They lifted—hesitated-as the injured nation moaned, but then resumed their ministrations once the other settled down. Something cold touched the back of Tino's head, leeching away the pain for numbness; his eyes slid open.

Stoic features and cold, blue eyes swam into Tino's view from beyond a blur of grogginess and tears. "Berwald…?"

The other tensed, but then spoke in that usual quiet mumble. "You've been sleeping."

"How long?" Tino brought his hand to the icepack to hold it in place as he sat up. The pain was considerably less, though the room still spun even as Tino's eyes lit with recognition. Of course, he was in Berwald's small winter cabin. How had he not known that before?

The Swede studied the scars across his knuckle. "Several days."

No more answers were forthcoming, but Tino pressed further. "W-why?" He worked to exhale softly as his hand tightened around the icepack. With his other hand, he pulled the quilt more snugly about his shoulders.

"Storm was bad. You wouldn't listen." The Swede choked through some more incomprehensible words, then: "…there was no need to be so headstrong. Was worried." He let out a low sigh, and it was evident that he'd been mulling over and internally practicing what he'd wanted to make clear to Tino. Another sigh. His eyes took on an icy scowl as he studied the glow of light through the frost tinted window.

Silence.

Normally Berward was more comfortable with silence than Tino, and it was rare for him to break the great spells of awkward stillness that sometimes ensued between the two when they disagreed. But Berward was also not one to stay angry or dwell on the past. So, looking at Tino with slightly softened eyes, he shoved himself upright. "I'll make tea. You're probably starved." He quietly made his way toward the kitchen, shutting the door softly behind.

Left with his own thoughts, Tino studied a cross-stitched wall hanging near his head, taking in the ragged specks of colours forming a disjointed image that only made sense from a distance. In this way, he considered what he remembered of a few nights ago, and how he'd been determined to get through the storm to the market, refusing to heed both warnings and offers for assistance-and worrying the usually stoic Swede half to death in the process. He just didn't want to be a burden, and a tiny part of him wanted to prove that he was still independent.

"It's not that I don't want to depend on you, Sweden," he murmured at the fabric dancer depicted on the cloth. "And I do trust you." He swallowed and set the icepack down onto the bedside table. "It's just that sometimes it's hard for me to remember that I'm not going at this alone anymore."

Tino listened to the clinking of mugs and the pour of tea. He could only imagine the steam rising up and swamping Berwald's glasses in fog, and the way he'd probably bump one of the mugs with his elbow while he tried to clean them. Tino allowed himself a smile and quietly shifted, one foot skimming the floor as he tried to lower himself out of the bed, eyes set on the fireplace nearby where the flames had dwindled and were no longer providing warmth.

But he hesitated, though his teeth chattered, and withdrew back into his covers. While he knew he could probably hobble over to the hearth and rekindle the fire, he decided to wait and ask Berwald to take care of it for him.

It was okay to rely on others.


End file.
